


Kill the Radio Star

by Paraphilia



Category: Anthropomorfic, Anthropomorphism, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Anthropomorphic, Dirty Talk, Drama, M/M, Porn, Radio, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paraphilia/pseuds/Paraphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Radio's really good at dirty talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill the Radio Star

The thing is, Radio's really good at dirty talk.  
  
Video's known this from the start. Pinned to the bleached sheets of yet another seedy motel, fists clenched on the bed, back arched -- listening to Radio growl in his ear, that low-pitched, gravelly, scratchy voice, whispering obscenities and commands that make Video fall apart. It isn't just the voice, although sometimes Video thinks that Radio could make him come with that alone. It's the  _experience_ , the self-possession, the authority in Radio's stature, his face. His features are blunt and roughened with age, the kind of features that would've made him a charmer in his younger days -- but now they add a certain air of menace to him, an oddly congenial menace, as if Radio's putting on an act even when he's being polite.  
  
"It's called selling your wares, boy." Radio's sitting by the window now, smoking his usual post-coital cigarette. Moonlight angles through the slats, strangely metallic, glinting off the chain around Radio's neck. "Although I suppose you'd know all about that."  
  
Video sits up in bed, flushing. "I've never -- "  
  
"Of course you haven't," Radio soothes, mockingly. "You get others to do the marketing for you, don't you? The QuickTime trailers, the Nintendos. You probably don't have an ounce of talent. Nothing that would make you sell by yourself."  
  
"You seemed plenty happy with my  _talents_  a while ago."  
  
Radio raises his eyebrows. "My, my. The kid has a spine."

"Stop calling me -- I have a name, you know. I'm not just  _boy_  or  _kid_  or _brat_."

"Your name." Radio's eyes are shadowed, but Video knows that he's looking at him. "You think you've earned it? My acknowledgment?"

"I make nearly as much money as you do. Soon, I'll be making more."

"No doubt. With your high-definition recording and your pixelated porn. On display for everyone to see, unraveled and open in your most intimate moments." Radio snuffs out his cigarette, getting up and heading back to the bed. Video feels his heart speed up. "Do you enjoy it? All those people watching you, looking at you? Does it make you hot?"

God, that voice. Radio hasn't even touched him yet, but Video's already getting hard. It'd be embarrassing, if it weren't so damn  _good_. "Yeah. It -- it makes me hot."

"Show me." Radio climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his knees. He hadn't dressed after their previous round, and Video spares a moment of gratitude for the motel's lack of air conditioning, because Radio's bare skin is glistening with sweat, the scent of it thick and familiar, and Video can almost  _taste_  it.

"W-what?"

"Show me. How hot it makes you." A hand settles on the pillow next to Video's head, and Radio's poised above him, eyes unnervingly intent. Radio's other hand touches Video's hip, briefly, a scrape of guitar-calloused thumb against Video's skin. "Touch yourself."

Video stares up at him. And, well, okay, it's not like he hasn't -- done a lot of things with Radio. Getting fucked on his knees, on the bed, in the shower -- getting rimmed, even getting fisted, once, which had broken him and rebuilt him in the space of two long, excruciating hours. But he's never been  _watched_ , not by Radio, and being watched is what Video was made for, after all.

Maybe he can show Radio how good he is. Why it is that people prefer him now, why they can't stop watching him, renting him, even pirating him.

He can't help smiling a little as he rests his head back against the pillow, and reaches down with his right hand.

"Smug, are we?" Radio sounds amused. He settles a palm on Video's thigh, warm and heavy and just far enough for it to not touch Video's cock. Radio can't help arching a little. "Go ahead, kid. Show me what you've got."

All right, then. He curls his hand around his dick, comfortable and just this side of dry, nothing but sweat moistening his grip. He does it like he does it when he's alone, with nothing but the whir of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock to keep him company. Something tells him that this is what Radio wants to see, not one of his elaborate shows for the general public, half-false and a little too theatrical for Radio's taste.

Video's breath grows deeper, hoarser, as he strokes himself. Radio is a hot shadow above him, coiled and alert with that silver chain of his swinging -- and Video lets himself watch the clench and flex of Radio's muscles, the tension in them, the lust barely restrained. How long will Radio be able to resist fucking him? Even if he manages to resist all the way until Video comes, Video sure isn't gonna to make it easy for him. He'll make this so good, so hot, that Radio will flip him over and drive into him the moment Video's done -- drive into him with those deep, rutting thrusts that rock the bed, that turn Video into nothing more than a creature of heat and twisting muscle, pushing back and begging like a slut, babbling for more, harder, please --

"That's good." Radio's a little hoarse himself, his dick hard where it brushes against Video's thigh. "You're thinking of me, aren't you? Do you always think of me when you jack off?" Radio's mouth is hot and stubbled against Video's ear, the rumble of his voice like liquid sex. "Fuck. Do you even know what you look like? Like just another college kid working himself into a frenzy while he imagines his lover's cock rutting into him, hard and deep and true." An almost-kiss against Video's throat, just above the racing pulse. "Does your precious  _publicist_ know about this? That you've got an older man who pins you down and screws you, who calls you a whore because you  _are_  one, and Jesus, if only they could see how you break for me, how you shudder and sob and come. So young, so new, so pure -- "

Video realizes that he's jacking off in earnest now. Not the gentle rhythm he'd hoped to tempt Radio with, but a frantic blur of knuckle and palm, a friction-lit burn of lust that whips up his spine and  _curves_ , curves him right off the bed, until his chest brushes Radio's and his mouth drops open on a cry. He can't stop himself, can't stop his hips from riding up into the grip of his own hand, slick with pre-come and getting slicker by the second. Radio's so close, so fucking close, but he isn't touching Video at all, isn't doing anything but talking in that sandpaper-rough voice of his, his words as dark as molasses, his eyes wild and fever-bright. Video's forgotten everything about impressing Radio, about seducing him -- all he needs is a touch, a kiss, anything. "Please -- please touch me.  _Please_  --"

"Begging won't work with me, boy. It never does. If you want me to fuck you, to call you by your name, you'd better earn it. Yeah, just like this -- twisting beneath me, knowing your place, giving everything you are to me because I  _own_  it, damn you, I own every last inch of you. The lift of your thigh, the curve of your cock, your mouth when it opens to swallow me -- all of it, it's mine, all mine, and no one else can make you  _writhe_ like this -- "

"Yes -- "

"Name. Call my name." Radio's panting in his ear, and his fingers are a sudden, near-painful vise on Video's thigh.

"Radio," Video gasps, and then, because he can't spare the breath for more syllables, "Dio."

Radio jerks, as if Video's just turned the key to some secret lock -- and between one moment and the next Video's being flipped over, just as he'd imagined, his face suddenly buried in sweat-damp cotton. He's dizzy, gasping for air, his hands scrabbling on the sheets, his legs parting as if on auto-pilot. Pavlovian conditioning. Fuck, Video's so hard that his dick feels  _bruised_ , swollen and heavy and hurt, slapping against his belly when Radio grabs him by the back of his neck and holds him down. He thinks he'll die if Radio doesn't touch him, doesn't bring him off, but then Radio does something better.

No prep, and nothing but a condom to smooth the way -- just the way Video likes it, the pain a blunt lightning that cuts him open, that bares him to the stillborn air. There's a moment of breathless suspension, of something a lot like terror, like vertigo, like being balanced on the edge of a cliff -- but then Video's falling, the crackling of sonic waves and Radio's broken voice behind him, groaning. So full, so deep, so hard. Radio thrusts once, pauses, pulls back -- and he doesn't even have to thrust a second time before Video's coming, color and light and roaring pulse, spilling helplessly over the sheets.

"Dio, Dio," he calls, as if calling God.

It's dark behind Video's closed eyes: the bright, crystal darkness of a blank tape, of pre-recorded silence.

But then Radio's hand spasms on Video's nape, and when he moves, the silence shatters like black glass. "Mine."

 

**Finis.**  


**Author's Note:**

> ... Ahem. So this was basically an excuse for hawt, sweaty mansex, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. No great theoretical revelations -- just good, ~~dirty~~ clean fun. This is actually an old story of mine, that I posted to anthropomor_fic a while ago. I'm grateful to the members of that community for inspiring me to write this, um... whatever it is. :D
> 
> Named after the 1979 hit, "Video Killed the Radio Star". I had to write anthropomorphic porn in order to consummate my lust for the Buggles. I'm sure you understand.


End file.
